


Focus

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Voyeurism, accidental mindsex, missy is a total stalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missy likes to watch him dream. She’s not trying to get up to mischief, and neither is he. Which does not stop mischief from occurring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Focus

The Doctor dreams. Missy watches, distantly, through a chink in his mental armor. She doesn’t pop inside, though. She just wants to see, and he’d certainly be alerted to her presence if she tried anything more than that.

Most of the time, he dreams of things he’s forgotten. The many adventures crowding for a place in his memory mean that he can’t recall most of it consciously; his dreams play them out for him, whether he wants to remember them or not. Usually, he doesn’t. He has traveled for so long, with so many, and it hurts to recall some of them, knowing he can never see them again. Most of the time, the Doctor dreams of the dead.

If he’s not remembering, he has nightmares. They are pieced together from all those scraps of memory he’s buried deep, the seams stitched and smoothed and glued until they form a cohesive and exquisitely terrifying narrative. Nightmares like this are still fresh and clear in his mind when he wakes, so much so that they seem more real than what’s actually around him. It’s like trying to watch a black-and-white film when someone’s painted a vivid and colorful horrorshow on the screen. Everything else seems washed out and distant and unimportant. It takes a long time, sometimes days, for them to fade out of his mind. He doesn’t travel until they do, just parks in the Vortex and reads or tinkers to distract himself.

The Doctor does not sleep often.

 

It surprises her how little her previous incarnations seem to figure in his mental theater. When she’d learned she could do this, she’d been all excited about the idea of seeing her former selves through his eyes. But when she sees herself, it’s always in passing. She hasn’t been in his nightmares _at_ _all_ yet.

It’s beginning to irritate her. She gets more and more fixated on him, watches him more and more.

 

The Doctor and Clara have had an argument; Clara isn’t speaking to him. It’s been days since he slept. Finally, though, he’s allowed himself to sit still for long enough to nod off on the couch. Some kind of technical manual is still open in his lap, the pen he’d been using to make corrections resting against his thumb.

Missy feels a rush of something she eventually identifies as “tenderness.” She wishes, for the first time since she started watching, that she could be there with him, move the book and the pen onto the table, coax him into lying down. She even wants to cover him with something, maybe his coat, thrown over the back of a nearby armchair.

These are not normal impulses for her. Slightly unnerved, she moves on to a fantasy about what she’d do when he woke up, his shock as she reveals herself to him, imagining the way he’d go still when she kisses him, refusing to touch her, at least until her hand brushes “accidentally” over the tent in the front of his trousers and he _moans_ —

The non-imaginary Doctor shifts position, just slightly, in his sleep, dislodging the pen. The quiet _tap_ it makes against the book is enough to startle him awake. He rubs his eyes, puts a hand through his hair, and immediately resumes making his corrections.

Affection wells up in her again, and now she’s imagining herself suggesting he go to sleep, imagining his refusal in the form of a halfhearted joke about how boring the manual is. Picturing herself plucking the pen out of his hand, putting it behind her ear with a smirk, easing the manual out of his lap and sitting herself there instead. His soft gasp, eyes going wide, then fluttering shut as she eases his head back with one hand, brings her mouth his for a moment, then to the underside of his jaw.

Oh, she likes this. She imagines his back arching just slightly as she works her way down his neck, slow and gentle and seductive. She imagines his hands, uncertain, suspended in the air next to her, until she takes one and guides it to her waist. “It’s okay,” she whispers, and he takes another breath, lets his other hand rest gently on her knee. She’s moving her fingers in the hair at the back of his head, not pulling or scratching, just toying. She undoes the top button of his shirt with her other hand, places a gentle kiss on the skin she’s just revealed. His hand tightens on her knee. She imagines that she feels his cock twitching to life against the back of her thigh.

Missy, in the real world, makes a soft and totally involuntary noise as she registers her sudden arousal.

(She is entirely unaware that the Doctor has just done the same.)

Focus. She has to focus. He might fall asleep again, might dream of her this time, more than just a passing glimpse. She can’t miss it if he does.

(Focus. He has to focus. Can’t let himself nod off again, he knows what he’s going to dream of with Clara gone. He can’t deal with that. Dreams of the Master are always the worst.)

She’s trying to concentrate on the Doctor of the real world, but she keeps finding her way back to the fantasy, undoing the next button, and the next, and the one after, trailing the very tip of her finger up his chest, making him shiver.

(It’s almost like he can really _feel_ it, the sparks of heat from that little touch, tickling his spine. He has to concentrate to stop himself from shivering.)

He hasn’t moved. Maybe he’s lost in thought about something on the page, or he’s too tired to do anything but stare at it.

(He’s read the same sentence fifteen times, not having understood a word of it, wondering where this feeling came from.)

She can feel how wet she is, between her legs. She can’t remember the last time she was aroused so quickly with so little provocation.

(He’s half-hard, for no apparent reason, has to sit back and spread his legs a bit. The motion makes the book’s spine rest more heavily on his—oh, _god_ , why does that feel so good? It should be rigid and uncomfortable, but it’s not.)

All it takes is that slight little shift in his position, and her mind has an excuse to escalate her fantasy, a soft sound of arousal escaping him as he pushes a bit more firmly against her. He twitches again, harder now, and she grinds, reflexively, down against him.

(His hands tighten on the book, pushing it down, and he thrusts instinctively against it.)

Greedy sounds of want issue from both of them at once—

—(the Doctor imagines hers without knowing whose it is and the thought yanks his hips forward again)—

—and Missy imagines his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh, trying to grope her over her skirts. She pulls her skirts up for him, and without making the conscious decision to, she has brought her own fingers straight where she wants his, sees his arm flexing in her mind’s eye as she rubs herself through her panties in reality.

(He moans, can feel how wet she would be even through the fabric. The heat coming off her is intoxicating. Oh, he’d forgotten this. He drags his thumb deliberately over the swollen shape of her clit.)

And Missy feels it as her own thumb does it without her telling it to, and she cries out, arches in her chair—

(She arches above him, and he thrusts greedily against the book, it still feels softer than it ought to and _god_ it is good. Her hand has tightened—)

—in his hair, but she’s still not pulling, she’s imagining her other hand clenched around the collar of his shirt as she rocks into his hand—

—(and she’s grinding against him as she does, the head of his cock is getting raw rubbing against—)

—his zipper, she’d love to undo it for him but she’s not about to do anything that could interfere with the motions of his fingers. _Her_ fingers, but they don’t feel like hers.

(His fingers are working furiously against the pages of the book, crinkling and folding them.)

“Doctor,” she moans, out loud.

(He wants to use her name too, but he doesn’t really know who she is, she’s just the shape of something warm and tender and perfect in his mind.)

“Oh, _harder_.”

(He obliges, can’t _not_ oblige, is delighted to do it, feels the lips of her pressed wetly against his palm through imaginary fabric.)

She keens her appreciation of him, as if it _is_ him, and not that her hand has a mind of its own. Oh, but it is, it _is_ him, all she has to do is think of him and she wants him, that’s all she’s ever needed. Strange, though, this time, because she hasn’t thought of hitting him or tying him down once. Not so much as a bite.

(Who is she? It feels like he’s wanted this from her forever. Is it Clara? He makes a wounded noise, bites his lip. Can he do that? Can he think of her when she wants nothing to do with him?)

She doesn’t need to bite, she decides, doesn’t need him bound or hurt. Not anymore. For some reason, she sees him through heavy lids, sprawled on the couch, and thinks, _you are mine_. He hasn’t done anything, not really, but she feels it, _you belong to me, you always will, so_ please me _and know that I don’t need cuffs to keep you where I want you._

(Who _is_ she? For a split second he wonders if it’s the TARDIS somehow, but it can’t be. Must be him, somehow, his imagination running away with him, inventing someone who can make him helpless with nothing but a touch, someone he can please and belong to. He’d give anything for her to be real.)

Missy arches, whimpers (his hand moves faster, harder, hips bucking wildly up against her), oh my _god_ she’s going to come, the heel of his hand is slipping powerfully and deliciously against her clit, she half-screams her pleasure, iPad falling from the now-limp fingers of her other hand. It slides off the edge of the table, hits the ground, and the screen goes black as a crack spiderwebs all the way across it. “ _Fuck_ ,” she hisses, not because she cares about the broken device, but because her thighs are twitching with aftershocks.

(She can’t see, but the Doctor’s legs are jerking his hips up against the book, it feels like a book now but that doesn’t matter, he’s already whimpering quietly with each spurt of come that escapes him. Papercuts have left his blood on the pages of the book. “Mistress,” he gasps, without knowing why. He supposes because that’s the first name his mind can come up with for a woman who owns him. And she does. She really, really does.)

Missy smiles, with a happy sigh that takes the shape of the words, “Oh, my dear Doctor. All _mine_.”


End file.
